A Vintage Death Read online

  Callie rose, too, ready to hand over her basket and hurry off. Still holding a certain image in her mind of a reserved and reclusive author, she was surprised when a petite woman of about forty with spiked red hair bounced into the room. Though the horizontal green, red, and black stripes of her tunic emphasized her plumpness, they seemed to be making the statement that color and fun were more important to the wearer. Dark green leggings and ankle boots completed the outfit—an interesting one altogether, Callie thought, for a writer whose work focused on the macabre.

  “Hi!” the author cried. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Oh! Uh, yes!” Callie stammered, catching herself staring. “How do you do, Miss Hammond.” She introduced herself and held out the basket. “From the shop owners of Keepsake Cove.”

  “Ooh, lovely!” Lyssa Hammond said. She carried her gift over to the sofa, the better to examine it, and patted the cushion next to her for Callie. “And please call me Lyssa.”

  Ashby settled back into his chair, ready to once again take over the conversation, when a phone rang in another room. He waited, and when it wasn’t picked up he rose, looking torn. “Please excuse me, ladies,” he apologized, “but duty calls.”

  Lyssa Hammond flashed a smile but swiftly returned to peering through the green cellophane as he left. “Chocolates!” she cried. “I love chocolates. And apples! Don’t they look wonderful. No poison to worry about, I presume?” She asked it in such a serious tone, and with the lift of one eyebrow, that Callie’s mouth automatically dropped, which brought a bubbling laugh from Lyssa.

  “Sorry. Force of habit. Everything has to have its sinister side when you write what I do, day after day, even thoughtful gifts like these. Thank you so much,” Lyssa said. “It’s very kind of the shopkeepers to send this. Are you one of them?”

  “I am. House of Melody. Collectible music boxes.”

  “Wonderful. Nothing the least bit unsettling or mysterious about music boxes, right? You wind them up; they play.”

  Oh, you’d be surprised, Callie thought, but she simply smiled.

  “I had one when I was a little girl,” the author said, looking nostalgic. “I might come by and see what you have.”

  “Please do. There’s brochures for all our shops in your basket if you have a chance to look around. We’re very excited about your book signing event.”

  Lyssa Hammond smiled. “I’m looking forward to it.”

  Callie got up. “Well, I should let you get back to your work.”

  Lyssa walked along with Callie, appearing thoughtful, which Callie took to mean she’d mentally returned to her latest work-in-progress. As they reached the door, therefore, Callie offered a quick goodbye, adding only, “It was wonderful to meet you.”

  Lyssa didn’t say anything for a few moments. Then, suddenly digging the toe of her boot like an embarrassed schoolgirl, she asked, “Listen, you wouldn’t be free for dinner tonight by any chance, would you?”

  When Callie, surprised, didn’t instantly respond, Lyssa rushed on. “I know, we’ve just met. But you seem very nice. I hope nice enough to take pity on a poor author?”

  “Oh, of course! It didn’t occur to me, but B&B means bed and breakfast, not dinner.”

  “Yes, though they do offer some sort of dinner if you ask ahead. It’s just … it probably means dining with … ” Lyssa rolled her eyes in the direction that her host had disappeared. “I really don’t think I could survive that. Will you help me escape?”

  Two

  I don’t care where we eat, as long as it has a wine list,” Lyssa said as she and Callie scurried over the gravel path to their cars, glancing over their shoulders as if expecting Ashby to suddenly appear and halt them. “And my treat, of course, since I roped you into it.”

  Callie protested, insisting she didn’t feel the least bit roped in and was totally happy to dine with their visiting author, but Lyssa remained firm. “Just don’t lose me on the highway, please,” she begged as she climbed into her shiny red low-slung Corvette. “I can’t always see over the big guys in this thing.”

  Callie promised to keep her in sight and took off, leading the way in her much less exciting and somewhat dusty blue Toyota to Oliver’s, a cozy restaurant that was several steps above her more usual haunt of Dino’s Diner but not so upscale and popular as to turn away last-minute arrivals. They soon faced each other across the table, Callie struggling to keep her gaze from wandering to the author’s spiked red hair.

  “You probably think I’m crazy for running out on my first day at the inn,” Lyssa said as she pulled off a chunk of the warm bread their waitress had left.

  “Actually, I felt much the same after spending just a few minutes in the parlor with Clifford Ashby. But it’s a picturesque place, isn’t it?”

  “The look of it is exactly why I chose it. I could totally see writing a future book around a house like that. Of course, I’d add a dungeon in the basement and maybe a few secret passageways.”

  The hidden door in the foyer had spooked Callie, but she could understand its appeal to a writer of ghostly tales.

  “But then there’s Ashby,” Lyssa continued. “Always there! It’s ‘Miss Hammond, would you like … ’ or ‘Miss Hammond, can we get you … ’ He would have hovered over us just like that in the parlor if the phone hadn’t rung. Hmm.” She looked away speculatively. “Maybe I should have the inn’s number ready on my cell? To press whenever I see him heading my way?” Her grin quickly faded. “But there’s usually staff around to answer, so that wouldn’t work.”

  “Is he like that with the other guests?”

  “Not that I’ve seen.”

  “So maybe he’s impressed with your … ” Callie searched for the right word. “Your celebrity?”

  Lyssa’s laugh ran up and down the scale at that. “I’m not exactly a Kardashian. Just a wordsmith with a few books out there,” she said, which Callie thought was a huge understatement. “But Ashby … ” she went on, more seriously. “There’s something just a little creepy about him.” She then laughed at herself. “But that’s coming from a person who writes ‘creepy’ all day long, so take it with a grain of salt.”

  Callie thought she saw a fleeting look of genuine unease on Lyssa’s face, though it disappeared so quickly she couldn’t be sure. “Can you move to another hotel?” she asked.

  “There’s not that much choice in the area, unless I want to give up my nice big room. And it’s generally quiet there. Too many B&Bs are on busy streets. There’s lovely ones in Annapolis, but they tend to be in the bustling historic district. I can’t write with a lot of distraction. It’s why I left my house.” She shrugged. “Small problems, right? As long as I stay in my amazing room, with its wonderful view and four-poster bed, I should be perfectly fine.” She took a sip of her wine. “Now tell me about yourself. I know you own a music box shop. What else?”

  Callie smiled and began with the bare bones of how she’d moved from West Virginia after inheriting her aunt’s shop. She stopped when their food arrived, but after their waitress left, Lyssa encouraged her to go on, seeming genuinely interested. It was flattering, but Callie began to wonder if some of her life might appear in one of Lyssa Hammond’s books. When she half-jokingly brought up that possibility, Lyssa’s laugh pealed out again.

  “Don’t worry. If I did, you’d never recognize yourself. I can’t help using bits of everyone I meet. Every novelist does it. We’re literary Doctor Frankensteins, mixing parts of lots of people together on paper. But what comes out is something totally new. That’s not why I’m asking about you, honest. I’d just really like to know.”

  Pleasantly reassured, Callie continued on but avoided bombarding Lyssa with too many details, skimming over her highlights and slipping in a few minor lowlights, although leaving the main one for a future meeting, maybe.

  “So, do you keep in touch with Hank?” Lyssa asked, spe
aring a green bean from her plate.

  “A little, mostly when he calls because he’s feeling down and tries to lay a guilt trip on me. It doesn’t work.”

  “Good. He had his chance, right?”

  Lyssa then shared a few fun anecdotes from her own life—she was originally from a small town not far from Baltimore and had almost been married twice but decided she preferred singleness—and the dinnertime passed enjoyably. But when they came to their coffee, Lyssa leaned back in her chair to sip. “You know,” she said, returning to their earlier subject, “besides his oddness, there’s something else about Clifford Ashby that’s been niggling at me. I have this feeling I’ve met him before but can’t think of where.”

  “I’ve had that feeling, and I hate it,” Callie said as she stirred cream into her coffee. “Have you been to Keepsake Cove previously? His wife owns Stitches Thru Time. Maybe you ran into him there?”

  “No, this is my first visit. Intriguing name for a shop, Stitches Thru Time. What does it carry?”

  “Vintage sewing things. Collectible thimbles, scissors, needles. Things of that sort.”

  Lyssa shook her head. “I’ve never been into sewing, but collectible thimbles sound pretty. I could see a whole shelf decorated with them. So his wife runs it?”

  “Well, they’re estranged. Dorothy said the B&B was Clifford’s dream, not hers. She’s a sweet person. Quiet. Very unlike her husband.”

  “Isn’t that interesting.” Lyssa took another sip. “But no, I wouldn’t have run into Ashby there. Oh, well. It’ll come to me if it matters, I suppose.”

  They moved on to discuss the book event, which was now only nine days away. Callie described the small public park where they planned to hold it, next to the cove that Keepsake Cove itself hugged.

  “It’s very scenic, especially now with the fall colors. But we’ll add as many spooky elements as we can come up with for atmosphere. Our publicity committee has already started spreading the word.”

  “Fantastic! Fingers crossed that we draw a nice crowd,” Lyssa said. She snatched up the bill that had just arrived. “I’m sure this is going to be a great couple of weeks after all. Thanks so much, Callie, for getting it started on the right foot.”

  She gave Callie a big hug after they both stood, and she promised to come see the music boxes very soon. As they parted outside, Callie looked back as Lyssa climbed into her sports car and started it up. She pictured the author driving up to the big Victorian house whose scenic gardens would now be shrouded in darkness, as night had fallen. The modern lighting indoors, not candles, would certainly help chase the shadows away, but Callie was still happy to be heading to her own cozy cottage. Small though it might be, there were no hidden doors there to startle her. Only a large gray cat who, since he didn’t say much, would be definitely preferable to the Foxwood Inn’s owner, Clifford Ashby.

  Monday morning, Callie was up early to meet with the other shop owners who’d volunteered to help decorate. As she headed out of her cottage lugging a tote filled with odds and ends that she might need, she heard Delia Hamilton hail her from across the greenery dividing their two cottages. Delia, who owned Shake It Up!, the collectible salt and pepper shakers shop next to House of Melody, was the first friend Callie had made after taking over her aunt’s place. Delia was Aunt Mel’s best friend, and she’d been extremely helpful to Callie after Mel’s death while also dealing with her own loss.

  “We’ll have a beautiful day for this,” Delia said, looking ready for outdoor work. Usually dressed in long skirts that flattered her round shape, Delia currently wore loose cargo cutoffs topped with a purple Ravens sweatshirt. Callie had chosen much the same, though her sweatshirt was a Steelers one that Hank had given her. Though she’d gradually disposed of most of the reminders of their past relationship, a comfy sweatshirt was hard to give up. She hoped she wouldn’t get too much flak over the logo.

  They headed together toward the meet-up site, Delia carrying a large box of homemade cookies she claimed to have thrown together the night before, “Just to use up some ingredients I had hanging around. I thought I might as well bring them for the group to nibble on.” It was the kind of thing Delia always seemed to think of that made her the special person she was.

  As they neared Pearl Poepelman’s vintage jewelry shop on the other side of Delia’s place, they saw Pearl coming down the bordering pathway that led to her unoccupied cottage. The white-haired woman was decked out in a long-sleeved, royal blue dress that flowed over the curves of her short, stout figure. As usual, multiple chains, lockets, and beads from her shop decorated her outfit.

  “I just came to unlock the door,” Pearl said as she spotted them. “Dorothy’s back there already, and the place is all yours. I’d stay, but I’m giving a talk on small business management at our granddaughter’s school,” she added, which explained her outfit.

  “Allowing us the use of your cottage for storage is contribution enough,” Callie said.

  Pearl wished them a productive day and hurried on her way.

  At the cottage, Callie and Delia found Dorothy and another woman peering into the boxes of decorations.

  “Good morning!” Dorothy said, looking up with a big smile. “I was just showing my cousin the beautiful things you gathered for us. Jane has delighted me with a surprise visit. It’s her first time here in Keepsake Cove.” She introduced Callie and Delia to her cousin, who bore a faint resemblance to her but had darker hair. Jane was also a few inches taller, but when she spoke, it was as softly as Dorothy.

  “I’m afraid I’m imposing on everyone by being here—Dorothy the most—so I hope you can put me to good use.”

  “Nonsense, Jane,” Dorothy exclaimed. “I’m delighted to have you.”

  “We can definitely use another pair of hands,” Delia assured her.

  “Jane drove all the way from Charlotte, North Carolina, on her own,” Dorothy said. “I’ve been begging her to come ever since I opened up Stitches Thru Time.”

  “What finally brought you?” Callie asked, thinking another family event might be occurring in the area. She was surprised when Jane reacted with a deep flush. But was it because the scarecrow-printed pole banner Jane had been holding suddenly slipped out of her hand? The woman swooped down in a fluster to retrieve it, and by the time she’d righted herself, the flush was mostly gone. Dorothy, who’d been standing slightly behind her, probably never saw it.

  “Oh, things just worked out at home,” Jane said as she placed the banner carefully on top of several others and patted it. “I found I could finally accept Dorothy’s standing invitation.”

  They heard voices of the other volunteers approaching, and the four women quickly became absorbed in the business of the day. Callie glanced at Jane once or twice but saw no signs of further unease. If there was some sort of problem, it was, of course, none of Callie’s business. Her business of the moment was getting Keepsake Cove decorated. So she picked up another box, handed it to waiting hands along with the proper directions, and focused on that, straying back to Jane only rarely during the rest of the day.

  Three

  The Cove looks great!” Tabitha, Callie’s part-time assistant, arrived for her late-morning shift, dressed as usual in her own unpredictable style. This time it was a full-skirted cotton dress that reached mid-calf, its dark plaid accented with white cuffs on the short sleeves and a white Peter Pan collar. To top it off, she’d somehow managed to pin her long brown hair into a fairly close semblance of a short 1950s hairstyle. The twenty year-old’s spin through the door had lifted her skirt briefly, revealing the stiff crinoline underneath. The entire look brought to mind someone Callie had seen on retro TV.

  “Donna Reed?” she ventured.

  “Jane Wyatt!” Tabitha corrected in a how-could-you-miss-it tone. “You know, from Father Knows Best ? I snagged the dress at Second Thoughts,” she said, referring to her favorite vintage cl
othing shop.

  Tabitha had previously worked for Aunt Mel, and when Callie rehired her, she’d absorbed all the young woman’s extremely useful knowledge about running the music box shop, which Mel hadn’t been able to impart. But Tabitha’s penchant for creative clothing had taken some getting used to, especially when she combined her outfits with elaborate makeup. That day’s makeup was limited to dark red lipstick, which reminded Callie of her grandmother’s favorite shade. It looked a lot better on Tabitha.

  “Jane Wyatt wore little white gloves, if I remember. And one of those flat-type hats,” Callie said.

  “I know! I wish they’d had the hat. I have white gloves, somewhere. Just couldn’t quite put my finger—ha-ha!—on them. So this is Jane Wyatt at home, not out for the day. Anyway, the decorations look terrific!”

  “Do you think so? I worried it might not be enough. Then I worried it might be too much.”

  “It’s perfect,” Tabitha said, clicking over to the counter in her high-heeled pumps to drop her vintage purse behind it. “I couldn’t have done better myself,” she added with a grin. “Which I would have offered to help do, except I had my jewelry to work on.” Tabitha had a small, home-based business that sold hand-beaded jewelry, which she was trying to grow. Working part-time at House of Melody tided her over financially until such time as it took off.

  “We had more than enough help. Laurie and Bill Hart pitched in,” Callie said, naming several of the other younger Keepsake Cove shopkeepers. “And Brian, of course.”

  “Of course.” Tabitha smiled but said nothing further. Brian Greer owned the Keepsake Cove Café across the street, and after he’d helped Callie with a few minor incidents, and one particularly dangerous one, during the summer, the two of them had begun spending a lot of time with each other. Callie resisted the term “dating” whenever anyone used it, so Tabitha kept to knowing smiles.